


Blood Brothers: The Red Itinerary

by inthemouthofthewolf



Series: Blood Brothers [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Depression, Intersexuality, M/M, Past Abuse, References to Suicide, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:32:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthemouthofthewolf/pseuds/inthemouthofthewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>started a year ago for a prompt on the first class livejournal kink meme:</p>
<p>Charles was born with an intersex condition and it has defined his life. Rejected and abused by anyone who's known, he’s ashamed and embarrassed and has given up on ever having a serious relationship, despite how desperately he wants one.</p>
<p>He meets Erik, who is frighteningly persistent in his attempts to woo Charles. Charles knows that this will end up another doomed relationship but he’s so lonely that he can’t bring himself to care. Erik doesn’t mind that Charles is hesitant to initiate any kind of sexual relationship. He’s gentle and patient, which makes Charles feel guilty about hiding an important part of who he is.</p>
<p>Just when Charles is getting used to the cuddling and the casual make out sessions, Erik finds out. Charles is flustered and horrified and scared and it takes him a moment to realize that Erik isn’t reacting the way everyone else has. That Erik is looking at him with something other than disgust in his eyes. That Erik is whispering “Oh, Charles” with fondness and affection, that Erik is pulling Charles in for a fierce hug. And for the first time in his life, Charles is accepted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It was a gash, a crooked smile borne of scalpels and sutures.

It mocked me.

I was almost naked, sitting cross-legged on the white tile floor of my bathroom, staring up at the mirror above the sink—only barely able to glimpse the top of my head, the loose brown waves of my hair—Good. I wasn’t sure I wanted to look myself in the eyes as I died.

I could read all their thoughts from an early age, and I didn’t need telepathy to know my own; I was an abomination, I was disgusting, I was freakish and deformed… I’d started and corrected the girl at the bar tonight when she told Raven I had called her deformed (that horrid word…) I was actually a little thankful my ‘sister’ let her façade slip just enough that I had an excuse to seem frustrated with her and want to leave. When I said things along the lines of “mutant and proud”, something she spat out tonight as if it was the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard of to the point of being offensive, she didn’t realize I was trying to convince myself this just as much as I was trying to convince her. I wanted to keep it that way.

This would be my third suicide attempt—third time’s the charm, right? First one I wasn’t much older than six, second I was thirteen, and now the world had gotten to be too much again. Less serious inclinations were splattered between the main events like so much blood. Raven didn’t remember all the hurt I had caused her with my self-loathing; no one did. It was better that they forget my failures, especially these… once I was out of the hospital, at least I could start with a clean slate and zero suspicion because next time (I always knew there would be a next time) I wouldn’t fuck it up.

All the fuckups just make me feel even worse.

It was late, Raven was asleep on the couch after I put her to sleep by reading my thesis (and with a bit of mental encouragement.) I was sitting against the bathroom wall in nothing but my boxers, feeling the cold night air reaching out for me through the open window. I shivered from my toes to the top of my head, wondering dimly if the blood would flow faster if I were a bit warmer—people slashed their wrists in bathtubs normally, didn’t they? I didn’t want to get into the bath, not without my boxers on at least, then my stomach wouldn’t churn and I wouldn’t feel so utterly sick, a scar and a gash, a wound, a tunnel leading to nothing, the only way I could see my life.

My nipples were hard from the cold; I pinched one absentmindedly between my fingers and felt a familiar lonely thrill seep through my being. Sighing, drawing a hand through my hair, picking up the razorblade from next to me on the floor—it all seemed to take so much effort, to be in slow motion almost, so lethargic and languid. I almost thought of a poem by John Wilmot, wondering if it would apply to my corpse as much as it applied to his—his you-know-what after suffering from syphilis for years.

Now, languid lies in this unhappy hour,  
Shrunk up, lifeless, like a withered flower.

I made the first incision—I was right handed so I remembered to start with the blade in my left. When my hands and my mind and the floor were all slippery with blood, my dominant hand would better get the job done. It wasn’t so deep at first, because despite how utterly disgusting and foul I was, how I didn’t deserve to live, how everyone would be much better off without me, I was afraid to die.

I reminded myself that there was no going back now, that I’d been planning this moment my whole life. Exsanguination. If I could manage the cuts right it shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.

The next attempt was monstrously beautiful.

I’d gotten my affairs in order quickly enough, a small note scribbled and left on the open pages of my thesis. I would never become a professor. I’d straightened up what was there to be straightened—had an impromptu will sitting beside my apology to Raven. She’d never understand but I couldn’t leave her with nothing. She knew Father beat me and Mother despised me well enough by now, but she never knew from where a great deal of their hatred originated, that from the moment I was born I was something to be feared and ridiculed, and certainly never to be loved.

I gritted my teeth against the pain, trying not to even whimper, waiting for my life to start flashing before my eyes instead of this quick red pulse, blood spurting in time with my heartbeat. It was messy and sharp and things seemed as if someone had turned up the saturation on the tv, and the red was taking over, already a pool on the tile, even as I hurriedly switched the razorblade into my right hand. Blood was making my hand slippery and I almost dropped the insignificant-looking blade—but by reflex caught it before it hit the floor—and the resulting cut on my thumb seemed to hurt worse than the gaping wound freely flowing. I was going into shock, probably very soon, and things that at first scorched with warmth were rapidly cooling, was it because I left the window open? I was beginning to feel dizzy. It was hard to think.

I bit my lip as I took the razorblade to my left wrist—it was a lot easier this time, even with all the blood dripping from my hand in dull, very audible splatters—I could hardly feel this cut and as blood blossomed up like so many roses thrown into my grave, I smiled to myself.

I began to hum a song with no name, biding my time, waiting, growing more and more light-headed as I began to slump to one side. My boxers were completely saturated and crimson as was most of the tile floor of the large bathroom—I felt bad for those who would end up cleaning this mess up—I felt bad for Raven when she came in here in the morning to brush her teeth and do whatever other things girls do in the bathroom and she would find me here instead.

I was fading fast, only semi-conscious now, humming to myself still, as if to quiet and prepare my spirit. Everything was slowing, and it was so peaceful. She found me as I began to faint, I barely caught a glimmer of the profound horror in her eyes and still had enough within me to feel incredibly guilty.


	2. The Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting out of the hospital and getting things out of the way.  
> Set-up for entrance of Erik Lehnsherr.

All the haunting memories seemed far away and twinkling like stars, like blurry overhead lights rushing by. These blurry winking lights I found were separated by panels of gray and I could very vaguely feel myself moving, or rather, being moved—carted along—before things faded into blackness once more.

I woke up with a grim sense of finality still pulsing within me. I was so weak that I could barely sit up. Inwardly, I gave an irritated sigh as I took in my surroundings. White room, white sheets, white bandages on both forearms with red seeping through… I was still in my boxers, now a bit darker and more brown-coloured with dried blood, making them stiff—they chafed horribly. Raven was crying by my bedside. It was the first time in her memory something like this had happened.

Everything else was also passing in blurs of light. The doctors and psychiatrists who came to see me asked me questions that were merely formality—they had already most certainly made their decision that I should be locked up for my own safety. Even in my sour mood, I was too level-headed this time to stop them right then and there. It made for far less repercussions and guilt from manipulating that many people. I weighed my words carefully, giving them nothing to use against me, comforting Raven as best I could and even showing a slight bit of honesty through the mask of self-assurance and idealism I always wore.

They transferred me to the nearby psychiatric hospital. I would make my move here, during my intake, before they could pump me full of Lithium, or worse, Thorazine. Tricyclics would be their first line of defense, of course, and thankfully, in this new day and age hospitals were actually more concerned (though only marginally) with helping the patient become stable enough for discharge as opposed to warehousing as was the old custom. The population in hospitals had just become too large, comprised partly by healthy people. There were many rumours and confirmed cases of gross mistreatment, even torture. It would be too dangerous to stay much longer, but waiting for the opportune moment kept me from controlling more people than absolutely necessary. I’d learned my lesson my first attempt when I was six. After waking up from overdosing on my mother’s medication, in confusion and panic I had mindwiped nearly everyone in the entire building. I still feel a little bit sick with guilt when I think about it.

Before the labeling and dehumanization made me a victim, or rather, as soon as my intake began and I was alone with the psychiatrist, I complained loudly of the straps keeping my whole body secure to the gurney. I said that they were digging into my wrists, which wasn’t untrue, and hurt terribly. I answered a few questions—no homicidal impulses, no auditory hallucinations, the usual, before I was allowed to sit up. It was very systematic, the way things were run here. I feigned a headache, so that I could put two fingers to my temple…

I made it just in time to my presentation. Having escaped from the clutches of worse than death (and my suicidal impulse somewhat sated for now), I was actually in bright spirits for once. Raven, as we left and headed straight for the nearest bar, had forgotten the whole ordeal and was smiling in a way that would have never been seen again. She was proud of me. Raven was the only person in my life thus far whose praise actually mattered to me, not that I’d ever received it from elsewhere in the family, except for that one time I fell down the stairs and broke my arm.

Despite everything, today was a time for celebration. Raven and I walked arm in arm; I was using a bit of my concentration to hide the bandaged wounds—I would always need to hide them, now. I made sure that she didn’t accidentally brush up against one because, while she wouldn’t notice, I most certainly would…

“Drink Drink Drink Drink Drink!” A unified chant was filling up the bar as I chugged what seemed like half my body weight in beer. I was slowly forgetting the terrible feelings that seemed to always plague me, and was instead filled with a fuzzy warmth. After I finished the last bit of it, tilting back the impossibly long glass, I let out a roar of victory, an I-love-everyone-in-this-bar type cry. Raven was watching me amidst the crowd, hiding like I did, only I covered up my insecurity with suavity, and didn’t have the luxury of being able to morph my body into any human visage I chose. I was eternally jealous, not that I would ever admit it.

“I’m so proud of you!” She said, throwing her arms around me in a fierce hug. I laughed, feeling more elated than I had in months—one major stressor in my life was over and done with. I moved to get each of us another drink, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear as I walked, pinching the bridge of my nose as if to clear the light clouding in my head. There was a pretty girl at the bar. She smiled at me, which both thrilled and terrified me. I made a move to approach her when I was intercepted by another woman altogether. For a split second I comically wondered if I really had died and had gone to heaven—but if it really was heaven, there would be more men. More men wearing far less clothing.

“Congratulations, Professor.” The introduction halted my slightly shameful reverie, and I welcomed it as well as I would have welcomed another beer.

“Thank you. It’s much harder than it looks, actually.” I grinned, tilting the long glass from hand to hand, still feeling quite fuzzily splendid about the whole thing. Not quite splendid enough to be absent of that little nagging sensation that said I should be a lifeless body, a rotting corpse, certainly by now. It had only grown stronger with every failed attempt. But it wasn’t an unhappy thought, though grim. It just was.

“No, on your presentation.” She corrected me earnestly.

“Oh, you were at my presentation. How nice of you! Thank you very much.” I said, smiling all the more, even daring to place my hand briefly on her shoulder to show how much I appreciated anyone paying any positive attention to me at all. She introduced herself quite formally, and I shook hands, intrigued, but also rather drunkenly amused.

“Do you have a minute?” She asked, and being the self-loathing self-sabotaging prick that I am, I became more bold, and began my usual routine. It was something good-humoured and arrogant, with just enough lechery to both make me seem the normal hornball chap as well as be off-putting. Raven would be surprised if I ever really told her the efforts I went to in order to appear normal—it was a constant façade. At least she could talk about her feelings freely to me, and when it was just us at home she didn’t need to cover up her natural blue form. She was comfortable around me, and I seemed to be around her, but I was only pretending, because deep down I knew I was unlovable. Abhorrent.

“It’s a mutation. It’s a very groovy mutation. Mutation, right, took us from single celled organisms to the dominant form—“ She interrupted me right after my favourite part, smart enough to see through the first layer of what I was attempting to do. Unusual.

“Look, this routine may go over great with the co-eds” She had waved her hand impatiently when she stopped my rambling, “but I’m here on business. I really need your help.”

I switched mask for mask, like a one-man Greek theatre. Abandoning the role of the debauchery-riddled college boy, I took on the complimentary one of a bumbling alcoholic. I wondered why she would ask me of all people for help, being that I’d just graduated literally less than three hours ago.

“All right.” I mumbled, blinking, getting my act into focus—a drunken-boxing approach to life, if you will.

“The mutations you were talking about in your thesis,” She began, “I need to know if they may have already happened.” I could tell she was anxious, and I was becoming increasingly so, though covering it up quite well with drunken stupor. I'd always known something like this was going to happen. Raven and I couldn't be the only ones who were different-- just as I knew I couldn't be the only one. I snuck my fingers to my temple, pretending to be resting my head on my hand. I allowed myself to see into her mind fully, seeming spaced-out to say the least. A woman made of diamond and a severe-looking red man with a demon tail.

“I think we should just talk when you’re sober.” She said briskly, even more impatiently than before, “Do you have any time tomorrow?”

“Something tells me you already know the answer to your question.” I said, sounding both sleepy and laughably mysterious, trying to hide my interest as best I could.  
“This is very important to me, and if I can help you, I will do my utmost.” I murmured, fixing my blue eyes on her pretty chocolate ones. She thanked me and left me alone to switch masks. I returned to Raven (drinks in hand) a few minutes later and explained to her what had transpired.


End file.
